Between Seasons

Dear Winter, My Winter-

 

Let your chilly hands race over my skin.

Let the callouses on your fingertips ease my heart.

This dance we've done-

Centuries old, running on instinct alone now,

Tangled in the sheets twice-yearly-

When did it begin again?

When did you forsake your quiet solitude,

Your icy mistress,

To come lie with me, bedded in goose-feather down,

Flying south to see me?

 

Hear their song as they fly, as we once sang.

You, the steel strings, and I, the wood,

Of a guitar that weeps folk music.

Our voices hoarse, unused for seasons.

I rest surrounded by the dreams of the broken sidewalks,

The dreams of camellias

Who have no scent,

They are large, but beautiful, anyway-

Yet seen imperfect.

 

We've been cast to the air again, my breath the heat you crave.

My blood running warm behind flushed cheeks

And my heartbeat faster than the run of migratory herds.

You, yourself, displaced now

Arriving too soon, bitter, then thawing as you hold me.

Me, hot-tempered, anxious.

Here, like a shadow,

Flicking to life like campfire kindling

In the spark from your eyes.

 

You make me echo the stars with one glance.

 

-Your Summer, Lonely Summer

This poem is about: 
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